


"... but the ties of passionate lovers"

by Astray



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prompt Fill, fix-it AU - no one dies, same time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each year, Poseidon would send an envoy to a city of its realm and demand of its inhabitants to bring it their most beautiful virgin. This year, Verona has to send one of its youth - just not the one who could be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SosearchingRomeo (Breakingthestandards)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breakingthestandards/gifts).



> Sosearchingromeo's prompt was a Tycutio fic, based on the story of Andromeda. 
> 
> The title is from Ovid's Metamorphoses and provided by Ambrose.

There was no such thing as Gods any more. They had fallen to the ground and their empty shells had been filled by men and women of power who sought to rule. Such was the case of Poseidon. Of course, it was a legend. A legend built by men seeking power, doing all they could to ensnare others. Poseidon was no man – it was an order built on decayed antic beliefs – hoping to recreate an ideal society, away from the corruption of commerce, of the Holy Church, of men. A perverted remnant of an old faith operating in the shadows of Italian republics too busy fighting each other to thwart the threat it represented. And so, Poseidon grew, gaining enough power to impose its will on city-states.

No one had ever seen a member of Poseidon – rumour had it that Poseidon grew its own members after cherry-picking newborns and taking them away. Like a hydra growing hundreds of heads to survive. Poseidon soon attributed itself the myth tied to the name. Even though it was invisible, all Italians from the Adriatic coast knew of it. Its fief was an island south of Venice. The city had been allowed to remain above water thanks to Poseidon's benevolence – otherwise a blockade would strangle the _Serenissima_ until it collapsed in on itself, removed from land and sea commercial routes. Or so people said.

In Verona, so far away from the shores of the sea, Poseidon was only a foreign ruler they did not care much about. This otherness was reinforced by the use of a Greek name. They were aware, however, of the tribute that had to be paid to ensure their city state would not be drowned by its wrath. Each year, Poseidon would send an envoy to a city of its realm and demand of its inhabitants to bring it their most beautiful virgin. Children were not an option, however, and it used to have made parents glad it was so. Of course, people would encourage their children to marry young so that they would not have to be sent to Poseidon. Years ago, in Verona, it had been Barbara Vespucci who had been “requested” - except her parents had married her to Lord Capulet, as a second spouse. Love was not the reason for this wedding – simply a way to protect Signior Vespucci's only daughter.

Of course, Poseidon had felt rather slighted, and vowed that if Verona married off its daughters only to prevent them from being taken, a bloodbath would be what was to drown the city. The threat itself was a lot more detailed. However, the fact that no one ever saw any member of the order made the threat less powerful. People even doubted of the reality that was Poseidon, but while the Prince of Verona could understand their doubts, he would rather not take any chance. Still, since the wedding of Lord and Lady Capulet, Poseidon's envoy had not been seen in Verona, and the young generation may not have always believed it.

So, when Prince Escalus received a word from Poseidon, via a messenger, with instructions to reply within the week, he was resigned. He simply hoped that whoever Poseidon chose would not wreck havoc in the already fragile peace he forced onto the Montagues and Capulets. He sent everyone out, before he broke the seal. He did not bother reading the whole letter – he immediately focused on the name written in spindly script at the bottom of the page. A single name. Not the one he had expected to read. Suddenly, he began hoping that he could have an excuse to send the messenger on his way. Except he could not. He needed time. To think, and put some order in his thoughts.

 


	2. Monday afternoon

Two days later, quite far from the Prince's problems, his nephew Mercutio was having a field day taunting one Tybalt Capulet. Onlookers would think it was a lot more than just taunts, but it seemed that Verona had grown used to their fights. Mercutio was sitting on a high garden wall, and did not bother keeping his voice low as he shouted insults at Tybalt. Tybalt Capulet seemed, for once, resigned, and went on his way. The fight was obviously not over, however, because Mercutio immediately sauntered down the wall to run after the lone man. He almost collided with Tybalt, and it was only sheer luck that prevented him from sending the both of them sprawling down.

“Why don't you find something better to do with your time?”

“Why don't you play with me, Prince of Cats? It is so entertaining.” Mercutio grinned, ignoring superbly the snarl it got him. Never mind that Tybalt was the best swordsman in town. Never mind that Tybalt was Lord Capulet's nephew. Never mind that he was just making things worse for the Prince by messing with everyone.

“Would be ever more so if you were dumb.” Tybalt sounded more and more aggravated by the second.

Mercutio did not seem to care, as he went on: “Come on, let's play!” And flung himself in the arms of Tybalt. Which was not as stupid a move as onlookers could have thought – Tybalt's arms were blocked by Mercutio, and they were too close for a sword to be used anyway. The moment of surprise did not last when Tybalt braced himself and shoved Mercutio away with all his might.

“Keep your filthy hands off of me. God knows where you've been again.”

“Don't you want to know, heh?” But it was too late, Tybalt had stormed off. Benvolio came up to him fast enough to restrain him.

“Can't you leave him alone for once?” Benvolio was calm, but he was not letting Mercutio go either. “You keep hunting him down, and what for? Insult him?”

“Insults are part of our mating rituals.”

“You should explain it to him, because apparently, he doesn't think of it that way.”

Mercutio sighed, before turning to look at Benvolio. He went to a nearby bench, under the shade of a tree. The city was bustling around them, as though it had not witnessed what could have sparked yet another brawl.

“Honestly, Mercutio...”

“Come on! I was joking!”

“You keep joking. That's what you say. But really, you are just lucky. One day someone will catch up with you.”

Mercutio frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Let me put it that way: you keep bragging about your prowess as a knight of Venus”, he motioned Mercutio to be silent, “and one day, someone might ask you to prove it.”

Mercutio took a moment to reply, and his cheery façade broke somewhat, before he hastily put it back on. “Well then, they'll be sorry.”

Their discussion was cut short by a Montague manservant, sent by the Lady of the house. Romeo had disappeared and Lady Montague meant to talk with her nephew. So, searching Romeo, Benvolio left Mercutio to his thoughts. His mind kept going to Tybalt. It was true, he did not have any excuse to seek him out, of all people, simply to make him mad. If Mercutio were totally honest with himself, which he was not, most of the time, he would say it was because he somehow enjoyed Tybalt's company. That was stupid, however. Having nothing better to do, Mercutio got up and wandered through the city. He did not come back to the palazzo until well after sunset.

 


	3. Monday evening

 

Tybalt was surprised when he arrived at the family's palazzo to find it bustling with people. It usually was much calmer. He stopped Sampson, his manservant, on his way in to demand explanations.

“Your uncle is at Villafranca with the Prince, your cousin is in her room and would not let anyone in.”

“And my aunt?”

“Trying to talk to her daughter, along with the Nurse.”

Tybalt shrugged. It had been happening more and more as of late. He had always done his best to give Juliet her space when they were at home. She was safe here. He nevertheless went to inquire whether or not his help was needed. As it was not the case, he made his way to his room, divesting himself from his baldric and doublet. He sank on his bed, not even bothering taking his boots off. He would have to get downstairs when his uncle came back and it would not be long, probably.

Idleness did not suit him, as his mind wandered to a certain annoying character. Mercutio had been harassing him for years, and he had grown used to it. He had even grown accustomed to the emotions he left Tybalt wrestling with. For the most part, it was aggravation. And bitterness. They used to be closer when they were younger. But Mercutio began bragging and taunting and making passes at everyone around him. This had bothered him. He was still bothered by his carefree attitude. Why would the man keep running his mouth about sex on a daily basis and still manage not to repeat himself? How did Benvolio bear with him? At first, he had been uncomfortable – to him, that kind of talk was best kept in privacy. He had moved apart from Mercutio, and apparently, that new distance had been the last straw. Mercutio was acting like he had been scorned, like Tybalt had betrayed him, or something. Tybalt himself failed to see what he had done to warrant this, but he was not about to ask questions. In short, he never quite knew if Mercutio's taunts were a weird way of flirting with him, or if he was testing Tybalt until he got punched. He sighed. The truth of the matter was that he was not indifferent to Mercutio. In fact, years ago, he would have done anything for him. Except Mercutio had pushed him away, making a point of talking about his latest conquests in town. Since Mercutio did not care a wit about him, why would he insist? Not to say he was happy with Mercutio being too close to him – as if he knew of Tybalt's own insecurities and was using them to get to him. Tybalt shook his head. He honestly thought he could have gone more than one month without hitting that particular spot, but apparently, he was not in luck.

He eventually went downstairs, as all the family was to gather for dinner. He sat down to the right of his uncle, facing his aunt and Juliet. Juliet was fidgeting, which was unusual. Something was off. His suspicions were confirmed when his uncle spoke.

“The Prince called us today because Poseidon's messenger arrived Saturday last.”

Tybalt wondered if his uncle noticed he took hold of his wife's hand as he spoke. He knew them to be usually distant in public, so this small gesture showed how difficult it was for them both. Of course, Tybalt had been told about this time when his aunt married to avoid being taken away by Poseidon.

“We also had to discuss the future of our families. On this ground, the Prince's decision is final.”

Cold dread descended on Tybalt as he glanced at Juliet. Did Poseidon ask for her? She was too young! She could not be taken. He had to do something, say something. He blurted out:

“Uncle, don't. Don't let them take Juliet. I beg you, I'd do anything!” Saying this, he got up, leaning towards his uncle, to make sure he was heard. They could not do this, not even the Prince! He swore it to his uncle, missing his aunt's surprised stare.

“Nephew, let me speak.”

“Please, there are other girls in this city, don't let Juliet go!”

“Tybalt-”

“Don't!” He was near hysterical, panic welling in him and he choked when his uncle grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to stop.

“Tybalt. Juliet is not going anywhere. Not to Poseidon. Calm down.” He had spoken as calmly as he could, and Tybalt fell back into his chair, trying to process.

“She's not?”

“No. Now, if you had let me finish, hot-headed nephew, you would have learned that I spoke of several families.”

Tybalt was growing suspicious again. He knew there was a talk of Juliet marrying Paris, another of the Prince's nephew. He was not overly fond of him, but he knew that there would be no marriage without Juliet's assent. And so, he kept quiet while Lord Capulet went on.

“I have to say it was not an easy decision to make. But considering the situation of our city, and the Prince's laws, there was no real argument. And my daughter could be a lawyer for how well she pleaded her case.” He glanced fondly at Juliet, who grew rather pink at the compliment.

It did not help Tybalt understand, however, and he was growing impatient. He did not have to ask, as Capulet told everyone present that his Juliet was engaged to Romeo Montague, with the assent of the Prince, of the fathers, and of the lady herself. He could not help but gape at them, unable to form words, torn between laughter and screaming. Probably both.

“How- When- I mean... _How on Earth did this happen?_ ”

“Are you sure we have to go through the whole “how to court someone” talk again, Tybalt?” said his aunt, though not unkindly, before adding: “At the ball, I'm sure you remember. You almost drove young Romeo from the premises.”

“But that was months ago!”

“Well, through that time, he had been courting her. Under Angelica's guidance.”

“Oh.” He trusted Angelica with Juliet, that was a given. Even if she talked too much, if Romeo found some sort of approval from her, Tybalt would not even be able to fight it.

They finished their meal in silence. Juliet looked so happy that her father gave his approval that she was practically glowing. And Tybalt did not have it in him to give her a hard time. After all, being married to a Montague and staying in Verona was much better than being sent off to Poseidon, somewhere on the Adriatic. Which meant...

“Uncle? Who is it that Poseidon wants?” Part of his mind reminded him that there was something about curiosity and cats. This little voice oddly sounded like Mercutio, for some reason.

“You won't believe me. I was really surprised...” He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, and once he had all the assembly's undivided attention, “it is-”


	4. Monday night

“ _What?_ ” Mercutio was outraged. Beyond outraged, to be honest. It was so much worse than anything he could have imagined. It made him regret not having arranged for Tybalt to murder him sooner. He whirled in on the Prince, who was the only other person in the room – and the one who spelled his doom. 

“Here is the letter. Proof that I can still read, as can you, if you don't believe me.”

“It's a fake, right? It's a joke?” And even as he was speaking he grabbed the letter, scanning it. Of course, there was his name written down on it. He could not believe it. How on Earth could they possibly have known? He was feeling sick. He slumped forward and would have fell if the Prince had not caught him. He tried to breathe normally, trying to focus on other things – how much taller than him his uncle was, how it felt to have someone holding him close – just out of protectiveness. He wanted to cry, and maybe he was crying, he had no clue any more.

He stayed like this for a while, not wishing to move at all. However, soon the Prince had to leave for another meeting – there would be a lot more this week, Mercutio was sure.

“When...”

“You have until the end of the week to give your answer.” _Even if your own wishes would never be taken into account._

Mercutio nodded and left for his own room. It was only then that it hit him once more. Ice pouring in his guts. The rules said “a virgin”. How could they know? Mercutio clenched his teeth. He had made a point that no one in Verona knew of it. Even if Benvolio may be aware, because Benvolio knew everything. Mercutio distantly thought about finding someone to fuck him right now, so he would be safe. The mere thought of it made him shudder. When all his friends had been all over girls and going to the brothels, he had been utterly uninterested. Or rather, there was someone who was a bit more interesting than the rest, but even then, at the time Mercutio was not comfortable with the admission that he had never had sex. In a society that led young men to get as much experience as they could as soon as legally possible, Mercutio had learned that anyone not conforming was doomed. And even if after that he had met people whom he had been attracted to, he had not wished to confront his situation. Since then, he had made a point of being as verbally lewd as possible, making it impossible for anyone to ever question his capacities. Alack, his lies were catching up with him. He could imagine the laugh Tybalt would no doubt have at his expense – because Mercutio was no fool. Soon, all of Verona would know. If not at the moment, they would know by Sunday next, because he would be sent off as the sacrificial lamb.

His thoughts drifted to Poseidon. He had heard all sorts of horror stories. One of which being that they used the people they “requested” to build a new society. The thought made him want to jump out of his skin. And the mere knowledge that Poseidon managed to keep tabs on every inhabitant – managed to know he was a virgin. It made him feel violated. His best kept secret now torn from him and left out there for all to see. His heart rose in his throat. He could not take this. And he did not want to be a tool for them. He did not want to go away. He thought about his friends – mostly Benvolio. He did not want to leave him. And his brother would come back from his law school in Padua to find him gone. He shook his head. This could not happen. And what of Tybalt? Who was going to haunt him if not Mercutio? That was not the only reason... Suddenly, an idea sprang into him mind. He would have to ask him!

He sprang to his feet, not even bothering with a coat, and dashed down the stairs. He ran, and he did not know if he was trying to outrun the rumours, but he did not stop for breath until he was at the Capulets' palazzo. And of course, it was not exactly the right time of day – night, rather – to knock on the front door. However, if memory served, Tybalt's room was the third window from the left on the south façade. So Mercutio used all his skills earned from escaping his relatives to climb up to the window. He was lucky that there was a large windowsill on which he could hoist himself to avoid dangling above the street. In other circumstances, he would have hoped that Tybalt would not have the jolly idea of pushing him back, but in this moment, Mercutio saw no flaw in that particular plan. He tapped softly on the glass.

When the window opened, he almost fell backward, and only avoided the great plunge by Tybalt swiftly catching hold of his elbow. He looked at Tybalt, and from his stance, Mercutio could tell that the Capulet was debating his fate. In the end, Tybalt pulled him inside. Mercutio tumbled inside, and was thankful for the rug that prevented him from falling onto the stone.

“What are you doing here?” It was just a hiss, and there may be people around, because usually, Tybalt did not hold back when he was angry.

“Getting a late night shag, what do you think?” He cringed. He had not meant to say this. Why on Earth would he say anything like that, to Tybalt, and off the streets at that? There was no witness, for God's sake! In short, he did deserve the punch he got.

He looked up, while gingerly nursing his jaw. What he saw puzzled him. Tybalt was not gloating, he was not readying himself to strike again. Heck, his rapier was still sheathed, and well out of the way. And Tybalt was shirtless. Mercutio could not help but stare – too stunned to look away. He just knelt there, transfixed, until Tybalt noticed and hastily put a shirt on, without a word. 

“I will ask again. Why are you here, Mercutio?”

It took him a moment to get over the fact that Tybalt used his first name. “You are not gloating, or laughing, or anything?”

“Why would I?” Tybalt seemed genuinely puzzled, and after all that running, Mercutio did not feel like lying or fooling around.

“Poseidon wants me. I thought it would make you laugh.” He paused, but quickly spoke again to prevent Tybalt from saying anything. “I mean, who would have thought, heh? The great, the mighty Mercutio Escalus, hasn't ever gotten laid. Better than a monk, really.” He let out a self-derisive laugh. Why wasn't Tybalt laughing, it was hilarious, no?

“No. Why would I laugh?” Tybalt opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it immediately. Mercutio was curious, but decided not to press it. Tybalt might end up saying what was on his mind, given time.

“Because I made everyone believe that I fucked my way through the city, and now, they'll learn I'm a fraud.”

“Being sent to these people is enough of a punishment, there's no reason for me to gloat.”

They sat in silence for a while, Tybalt on his chair, Mercutio cross-legged on the floor. Suddenly, he blurted out: “I don't want to go.”

Tybalt sighed, and it sounded like a defeat. “I'm not sure I want you to leave either. What would I do without my favourite practice target?” He had added the last part a bit quickly, but Mercutio could not help but smile. It felt a bit more like these years passed as children, when bantering was part of the game and no one got hurt. He frowned. He had not played fair by Tybalt, at the time, to be honest.

“Would you help me?”

“Before you ask, I'm not shagging you to prevent you from going.”

That stung. But it was deserved. Mercutio shrugged. “Without play on words, it's much simpler.” A pause, as he waited for Tybalt's attention. “I want you to kill me on Friday.”

This made Tybalt choke on his breath. He croaked was resembled a 'what?' but could not say anything else, it seemed.

“Of course, I would not really die. Just to make everyone think I'm dead. Until Poseidon strikes me from their records, and then I can come back to bother the ever loving hell out of you. How does that sound?”

Tybalt put his face in his hands, and he truly looked defeated. “Like you: completely insane.” He glanced back at Mercutio. “Why me?”

“Because no one would question your motives. And because you are the best swordsman I know – I trust you can fake a proper killing blow. And for some stupid reason, you are the only person I can trust with this.” It was a bit more than that. Mercutio had always trusted Tybalt, though it usually went as 'trusting Tybalt to kick his face in'.

They did not talk for some time. Mercutio knew he was asking a lot, and now that he was facing Tybalt, it all sounded quite stupid. If Poseidon knew he was a virgin, they would surely know if he survived the duel. Especially if the duel was a fake one. At last, Tybalt raised his voice.

“Fine. But you'll have to find a way to disappear afterwards. No one else can know that you live. And we need witnesses.”

“Duels are usually private.” And he regretted saying this, because it sounded wrong.

Tybalt glared at him. Apparently, he had made such jokes way too often that he could not even say it in its normal context without the innuendo to be heard.

“All things considered, I might kill you for real, Escalus.”

“Careful, Poseidon might want to get you in replacement.”

Tybalt let out a chuckle that could only be called humourless. “I'm missing something to be of any use to them.” He had kept his voice low, but it carried to Mercutio in the still air of the room.

For some reason, it angered Mercutio. It angered him beyond measure – that anyone had touched Tybalt, had lain with him. Maybe it was jealousy, he could not tell – jealousy at being still untouched, quite literally, or jealousy that Tybalt was not his. Although he was not meant to be. Mercutio had long since overcome that stupid want that had plagued him years ago. Tybalt had grown distant and he had done all he could to keep it that way. He was not going to go back on this now. To curb his growing agitation, he got up, making his way to the window whence he came. He climbed on it, not looking at Tybalt until he was ready to jump down.

“If you decide to kill me... Don't warn me, okay? Just, keep the element of surprise, you know?” And with this, he went down from the windowsill, not waiting for a reply. He did not expect, or want, one. He still had some time before the duel, however.

 


	5. Friday

The week had passed fairly quickly, and Tybalt was still wrestling with what Mercutio told him. He already had troubles imagining Mercutio fitting the 'beautiful virgin' part of Poseidon's requests. That was a bit unfair – Mercutio was handsome. He cringed. And this moron asked him to kill him. Well, that was only slightly better than asking for a quick tumble in the sheets, but Tybalt was quite unsure as to the success of the operation. He drowned himself in work, running errands for his uncle, lending a hand to Angelica, and overall staying out of the palazzo whenever Romeo was nearby. He began to resent Romeo, though he had no reason to. Tybalt wanted Juliet to be happy, that was certain, and even if it meant marrying the Montague heir. But he was raging at the ease with which it seemed to have happened. Compared to his own history with Mercutio, it was terrifyingly simple and smooth. It was not comparable though. Juliet was in love, and he should hope that her Romeo was too. It had never been a question of love for him and Mercutio. Or affection, for that matter. It had taken some time to convince himself, but it was fine now.

On Friday, he rose and, without thinking, donned black clothes. It was nothing, really. He sometimes wore dark colours. And the passing of his own parents allowed him to wear that particular colour, even if it was an event left in the darkest corner of his memory. A place where he never wandered. He walked around town, noticing the growing frenzy of the citizens. Apparently, rumours about Mercutio were confirmed, and everyone was talking about it. It upset him. And so, when he found Mercutio talking with Benvolio, it did not help his mood. Mercutio had not set any hour for their mock duel – he would have to go and provoke him, then. He sighed, and marched towards them. He saw how carefree Mercutio held himself – it angered him further. His life was at stake but that nitwit was acting as though nothing was wrong.

“Gentlemen, a word with one of you.”

Mercutio did not ignore him this time. “Make this a word and a blow.” He moved to the side, his right hand moving to the hilt of his rapier.

Tybalt mirrored the move, observing Mercutio carefully for any clue. Would they fight now? From the minute tilt of Mercutio's head, it was the case.

“Well then-” He was cut mid-sentence by Romeo barrelling in. Damn him.

“The Prince had forbidden fights in the city!” Romeo cried out.

Tybalt really wanted to ignore him, but he would not be able to fight Mercutio and “kill him” if Romeo was there trying to stop them from fighting.

“Out of the way!”

But then, Romeo grabbed his arm, just as he was unsheathing his blade. He froze. He had no memory of Romeo ever daring to come close enough to touch him. That was a new one. And this was way too familiar. And his following words were even more startling.

“Just because you are going to marry my cousin doesn't change the fact that you are a traitor, and a villain.” Traitor to his blood, disregarding the feud that had constituted the basis of their families standing in Verona, and villain because no one was worthy of Juliet. He did not explain himself further. He noticed Mercutio fidgeting behind Romeo.

“I will not fight you-”

“Of course you won't!” He spat the words as harshly as he could, glaring at the young man – boy, really, if his attitude was anything to go by.

“Well, if he doesn't, I will.” And Mercutio punctuated his words by drawing his rapier.

Tybalt decided to keep playing a little – after all, people were used to their verbal spars.

“I'm surprised you even know how to hold a sword.”

“Practice makes perfect. You should try sometimes.” Mercutio slid into guard, and Tybalt imitated him. The crowd was gathering around them, while Benvolio was restraining Romeo.

“And what would it get you, pray?”

“One of your nine lives, Prince of Cats, and maybe a few more, who knows?” And with this he lunged. Tybalt easily blocked it.

Soon, they were fighting, taking turns, and making a show of it. However, the longer it went, the bigger the crowd was growing, the more difficult it became. Tybalt could tell Mercutio was panicking – his aim was off, and Tybalt would probably have been able to avoid them all without moving more than a step at a time. And so, he answered in kind, attacking more ferociously – giving an impression of doing so, because his attacks were no stronger than before. Alack, because there were too many people, Tybalt could not keep track of everything, and the next thing he knew, Romeo was between them. He did not catch was Romeo was saying. Thrown off balance, he tried to correct his posture, tried for a quartatta – then a rotating lunge – it was a wide move, a showy move – even with Romeo in the way, Mercutio would be able to dodge it. Romeo prevented Mercutio from gauging the distance. Tybalt knew because when he should have encountered thin air, he felt his blade encountering resistance, before sinking into flesh. Stricken, he could only watch as his rapier buried itself in Mercutio's side.

It all happened in a blur after that – Mercutio was staggering away, clutching his side. Tybalt felt sick to his stomach. This could not be happening. He heard Mercutio's curses, and where it should have been all play, it was reality. His sword clattered to the ground. The crowd was blocking him, he could not go anywhere. Benvolio helped Mercutio go away, in search of a surgeon. Tybalt knew one. He finally managed to move, and leapt forward, dashing after Benvolio, passing him by. He ran until he found said surgeon. _Dottore_ Sarfatto had treated him more often than not, when he could not go home because of his injuries. He banged on the door, praying for the man to be at his office – and thank God, he was. He rushed through the explanations, and in the end, only managed to point Sarfatto to where Mercutio and Benvolio probably were. The surgeon left quickly, asking Tybalt to call his apprentice to get the room ready. Tybalt did as he was told, unable to even think properly. Minutes passed but felt like hours, and Tybalt could not wrap his head around what happened. He had killed Mercutio. Mercutio was dead. What had he done?

The relief he felt when Sarfatto arrived with Mercutio and Benvolio was short-lived when he saw Mercutio's shirt drenched in blood. Sarfatto immediately set to work, sending Benvolio away - “you can sit over there or go outside, just stay put. It will take some time.” Benvolio's face was ashen, and Tybalt was not sure he wanted to face him. But he had no choice when the Montague came to sit on the same bench.

“Waiting for him to breathe his last?” There was no rage in Benvolio's voice. Only resignation, and despair.

“It won't be...” And he was ready to pray God or any deity, no matter from which country on the planet, for Mercutio to be safe.

“Why are you here then?”

It was Sarfatto who saved him from answering: “He was the one who called me. Your friend would have bled out on the streets by now if he hadn't.” The surgeon turned an instant to glower at them: “And if you are going to prattle like old women, go to the backyard, why don't you?”

They left the room, not without a last glance at Mercutio, who was being restrained by the apprentice as the doctor was cleaning his wound. His muffled screams were too much to bear. Benvolio did not say a word, and neither did he. They simply sat in the orchard, among all the plants necessary to Sarfatto's trade. Waiting. The sun dial indicated that nearly two hours had passed before Sarfatto came to fetch them.

“He is sleeping.” He addressed both Tybalt and Benvolio, as though he ignored who the man he just treated was. “However, he had lost a lot of blood and will remain weak for a while. He would have to eat a lot of meat to regain his strength. And rest. The cut was quite deep.” He turned to Tybalt: “I should wish to check on him within a day or two to see how things are.” Which was a subtle way to say that Mercutio was treated within an inch of his life. Noticing Benvolio's crestfallen expression, Sarfatto added: “He will live. Escalus men are stronger than they seem. I treated enough of them to know that they would survive a plague.”

Tybalt stared. Why did he have this constant impression of everyone knowing more than they let on? It happened all the time and it was really getting on his nerves. He asked Sarfatto how he knew who Mercutio was.

“The crest on his doublet.” The doctor sighed, and told them to come back the next day. Mercutio would stay the night, in case the bleeding resumed.

Tybalt went on his way, not wishing for Benvolio to talk to him, ask about his motives or anything. He had enough to think about.

 


	6. Saturday morning

Pain woke him up, a sharp beat in his side. Mercutio tried to get up, but immediately fell back with a cry. He was panting, doing all he could to calm himself in spite of the pain. He screwed his eyes shut, as though this would be enough to stop feeling altogether. He was not home, that much was certain. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again, trying to assess his surrounding in the dark. The window let in a cold blue light, characteristic of early morning. How long did he sleep? He winced when he tried to move around. He grappled with his memories to put the events of the day before back together. He had fought with Tybalt, and Romeo had stepped in. Tybalt had tried to kill him- no wait. He focused on this particular moment – Romeo was between them. And Mercutio was the one who stepped in the wrong direction. How stupid of him... Oh well, he could have died and so end all his troubles. Surely, he was not disfigured enough for Poseidon to let him off the hook, after all. Anyway, he remembered Benvolio – and someone showed up – a surgeon. After that, it was a blur – all he could remember was the searing pain of his wound being cleaned and the stitching. He heaved at the thought, feeling rather sick.

The door opened, and in came a man with a candle. Mercutio blinked, trying to make out his features. He must be the surgeon.

“You are awake.” The statement was obvious, but for Mercutio, it held a different meaning. That is: you are awake, and not dead as you could very well be. The surgeon went on: “How does it feel?”

“Being on fire is a good comparison.” He surprised himself by managing a whole sentence without wincing. However, his throat was so parched that he could not help wheezing, the sudden heaving making pain flare in his side again. He took the clay cup gratefully – and drank as fast as he could without choking.

“I have to check the bindings, and I will give you diluted milk of the poppy to dull your pain.”

Mercutio only nodded, and let the surgeon do his work. He stared at the wall, concentrating on the changing hues of dawn – blue was making way for pink and gold. Dawn barely up. Only when the doctor gave him his concoction did Mercutio ask him who brought him here.

“Your friend carried you here.”

“We don't know you...”

“Tybalt Capulet called me.”

Mercutio faltered under the doctor's gaze. Tybalt looked for the surgeon? Why? He was at a loss for words. Except one: why? This single word kept going through his head on a loop.

A rapping sound at the door made him jump, and he looked for escape routes as the surgeon opened the door. Mercutio instantly recognized Tybalt, even in the shadow of the street. What was he doing here? And before he could stop himself...

“Came to finish the job, did you?”

Tybalt simply stared at him, and it gave Mercutio the leisure to observe him. His face was ashen, and he looked like he had not slept a wink. Strange.

“Indeed, I do.” He did not smile, simply shook his head, as though Mercutio had said something quite preposterous. “After all, you are supposed to have died. We can't bury a breathing man, can we?”

The surgeon was still there, and Mercutio did his best not to snap. This was ridiculous!

“So?”

“Your clever plan had a loophole – what to do once you got killed?”

“But since your that smart, you found the answer?” Mercutio did not want to admit it, but it was a major flaw in the plan, and he was to blame for it.

Tybalt nodded. “We're going to Mantua.”

“We?”

Before anyone could say anything, the surgeon stepped in: “Tybalt, I will not have you carrying my patient around to Mantua! The plague has not been quelled in the region. The risks to his life are too great!”

Mercutio vaguely wondered at the amount of familiarity, but he preferred not to ask. He waited for Tybalt to reply.

“The risks are no less great if he stays.” He then softened. “I would not put his life in danger, _dottore_. Not if I can help it, which I currently can.”

Mercutio was dumbfounded. Was Tybalt saving him or something?

“Very well. I suppose you are leaving now.” Tybalt nodded, prompting the surgeon to add: “At least wait until I gather enough supplies for your voyage.”

“Thank you, Sarfatto.” Tybalt then turned to Mercutio: “My man has fetched a carriage. I won't have you ride a horse in your condition.”

“I'm not a woman, Tybalt!”

At this, Tybalt strode to him, until he was so close Mercutio could feel his breath on his skin. “You are wounded. I won't have you bleeding out on a horse just because your pride got in the way.”

Mercutio was not sure if it was Tybalt's closeness or his words, but he could not look away. His heart was leaping, and for an instant, he almost could ignore the jarring pain in his flank. He had no choice but accepting his fate. He had not ridden in a carriage since he was a child. The idea made him feel weak, even if he knew Tybalt was right. The ride to Mantua was long. Too long for him to bear it on horseback. He thus let himself be borne away, and he did not question Tybalt when he took the reins of the carriage, his horse tied to the rear. Although it made sense for Tybalt's horse to be taken as well. The surgeon, Sarfatto, was there to see them off, looking none too pleased at having his patient leave. He gave Tybalt the name of a surgeon in Mantua, and Tybalt asked the doctor not to tell anyone about their hiding place.

“Verona will soon be in chaos. No matter who asks you, don't answer. Even if it's Benvolio Montague.”

This did not sit well with Mercutio – but since he was responsible for the flawed plan that forced them both in exile, he reckoned that Tybalt must have had valid reasons to do as he did. Mercutio kept the curtains drawn until Tybalt told him they were out of the city. Only then did he open them, and looked upon the walls of Verona. He felt a twinge at leaving like a thief, with no word for Benvolio, or his uncle. The sun was half-past the horizon. 


	7. Mid-Saturday

The Prince was pacing – he had sent guards scouring the city but no trace of Mercutio. If he were alone, he would be cursing and pulling his hair, but Poseidon's envoy was right there. He was getting frantic, especially since rumours had been spreading about town that Mercutio had been fighting Tybalt Capulet the day before. He refused to let fear take hold of him – if Mercutio was careless, he was certain that Tybalt knew the penalty for manslaughter, and would not attempt it. Or so he hoped. He sent more guards, this time to fetch witnesses – and one in particular. Benvolio Montague was Mercutio's closest friend, and was said to have been there the whole time.

Finally, Benvolio was brought before him. Mercutio had still not been found. And so, Benvolio told his tale – how Mercutio had taunted Tybalt, how Tybalt answered, and Romeo stepped in and everything escalated.

“So, Tybalt murdered Mercutio?” He just wanted to be certain of it.

Benvolio blanched, and the Prince felt sorry for the youth for having to recount everything.

“It was an accident, as I saw it”, said Benvolio, “Tybalt's sword hit Mercutio under Romeo's arm, but it was not a killing blow.” He paused, visibly struggling. “It should not have been.”

“So,” interrupted the envoy, “where is the body?”

The Prince bristled, but merely glared at the man before turning back to Benvolio: “What happened next?”

“I-” He hesitated. “I took Mercutio with me – he was bleeding, but kept saying it was a scratch. Tybalt ran passed us and I didn't see him after that. I couldn't run with Mercutio... I left him for a minute to look for a surgeon, but by the time I came back, he was gone.”

“Mercutio was gone?”

“Yes.”

The Prince could not restrain himself, and burst: “ _And you left him alone? How could you leave him on his own?!_ ”

He immediately regretted his outburst, seeing Benvolio shrink from him in terror. Only then did he realize he had his hand raised, ready to strike him. He breathed slowly, regaining control over himself. Mercutio was gone. This did not mean that he was dead. He stared at Benvolio. He, for some reason, doubted it was the whole truth. A dainty cough caught his attention, and he turned around to find Poseidon's envoy, looking altogether bored.

“What is it?”

“I asked you where is the body.”

He answered through clenched teeth: “If you listened, there is no body.”

“Well, he must have made a run for it, as this young man seems to say.”

Benvolio beat him to it: “He was bleeding out on the street! There's no way he could have survived this without treatment, none!” Benvolio's voice broke at the end, and his anguish was plain to see.

“Then,” said the envoy, turn to the Prince with an exaggerated air of suspicion about him, “what assures me that it was not a clever plan to hide your nephew from us?”

He gaped at the man, and for one second, imagined him with a skull cleaved in two. “You, are implying that I knowingly arranged for my nephew, and one of my possible heirs, to be murdered so Poseidon would not have him?” He had spoken very slowly, doing all he could to rein in his temper that was threatening to burst again.

“It would not be the first time.” The envoy shrugged. “Parents have killed their children, a few forced them to marry to prevent them from filling the... ah, requirements. Others got them to brothels to the same effect. Nothing unusual, as you can imagine.”

The Prince was grinding his teeth, but it was only so much he could do. “You come to _my_ city. Feed on _my_ hospitality. And you _dare_ tell me what to do? You have _the nerves_ to come to _my_ house and tell me I have had my nephew wounded so he can't be used in your sick breeding fantasies?” He was going too far but he could not stop. All the anguish he had felt since first hearing about the fight, combined with his grief at Mercutio's death, all blended into his rage. It was spreading through him, a Greek fire he would not stop.

“You forget your place, Prince. We are Poseidon.”

He stepped forward, until he was towering over this pitiful excuse for a man that just gave himself the name of a pagan god. “In my city, you are _nothing_.” He stressed the word.

“How can-”

“I can. And I remind you that Poseidon does not have a city-state. It has no legal power but the one we give it by grovelling in front of you. My nephew died. I will not have him die in vain.”

He contemplated the envoy with as much disdain he could muster. He did not care about the rumours. He did not care if that meant war. For years and decades, Poseidon had been terrorizing the greatest cities of Italy into cooperating. He would not let his city surrender.

“Tell your masters this: we will not be paying any tribute to you. Not anymore. And they are welcome to Verona to discuss the matter with me. My decision is final, but they will not be harmed. However,” he added, scowling at the envoy, “should any man or woman from Poseidon harm a citizen of Verona, the offender will pay with their life.”

The envoy left soon after that, and nothing short of ran to his horse. The Prince was left wondering if declaring war so easily had not been a bad move. He shook his head. Mercutio was dead. And he suspected that the carelessness with which Mercutio handled his meeting with Tybalt, as Benvolio recounted it, was in part due to his situation. He cringed. If only he had done it sooner. Mercutio would still be alive. He stalked back to his desk, and sank in his armchair. He was exhausted, and he felt so old... It was only then that he noticed Benvolio standing still near the wall. Benvolio had not said a word since the Prince's initial loss of temper. He called the young man to come and have a seat, and if you could please bring this tray with the wine _,_ he would be grateful. He helped himself to a glass, and served one to Benvolio, who was still slightly shaking.

“My apologies for my attitude towards you, Benvolio.”

Benvolio shook his head. “No apologies are needed.”

He nodded, and took a sip from the wine. It was strong. Maybe it was not such a good idea to drink now... Although it was not the time any longer to worry about being irresponsible.

“My lord, may I speak freely?”

The request was strange, but he agreed, half-anticipating Benvolio's commenting on the envoy's treatment.

“Mercutio... He is alive.”

He almost dropped his glass. Silently, he motioned for Benvolio to continue, too stunned to speak.

“When we left the _piazza_ , Tybalt ran past us, and called a surgeon of his acquaintance. The surgeon took Mercutio in and took care of his wound.”

“He lives.”

“Yes. But when I came to see him this morning, he was not here anymore.” He paused. “I asked the surgeon, and he did not want to speak.”

“But he spoke.”

“He did. But I must make you promise me not to tell anyone else.”

The Prince nodded. “I don't want Poseidon to hunt them down any more than you do.”

“They are hiding in Mantua.”

“Fine. Let them stay there a while.”

“My lord?” Benvolio was visibly surprised.

“I would rather Mercutio to stay away from Verona until this business with Poseidon is settled. When this is done, I will send for you to find them in Mantua. If you accept, of course.”

Benvolio smiled brightly at this, and looked a lot more like the boy the Prince had caught all these years ago raiding the kitchens with Mercutio.

“I will! Thank you, my lord!” Benvolio sprang to his feet, and for a moment the Prince was afraid that he would embrace him or something equally preposterous.

“No, I am the one who should thank you. You are the first person who brings me mournful news, only to turn them into joyful tidings.”

Benvolio left, and it was only after he was gone that it hit the Prince. Mercutio was in hiding with Tybalt.

“Oh Lord, pray that this idiot won't let his loud mouth get him skewered for one pun too many.”


	8. Sunday

Tybalt had all the trip to Mantua to curse himself, and curse Mercutio, and curse both their stupidities. Never mind Poseidon. Mercutio was believed to be dead and himself would be hunted down as a felon. It could not possibly be worse. At least Mantua was spared by the plague, and the safehouse was removed enough from the center for them to have gotten there without drawing too much attention. The house had been a gift to his mother from his father, for the family to reside when Verona was too loud. It was thus passed down unto him when he became of age. His relatives knew of it, but Tybalt surmised that if Verona wanted his head, no one would point them here. It was too close to Verona anyway.

For now, Tybalt was sitting on the terrace's railing, carving a piece of wood he had found in the stables. He would have to check on Mercutio soon – there were his mother's former servants, but they all lived in town, and Tybalt did not want to ask them for favours. They worked their whole lives, they could rest now. Plus, he did not need help to tend to a wounded man. He glanced at the drawn curtains of the room Mercutio was in. It was his cousin's room, from when he came to visit. But Valentio had moved to Roma years ago.

Tybalt tried to focus on what they should do now. He had already gone to the market as soon as they arrived. The medical supplies were in order. But what of the rest? How long would they stay here? How long would Poseidon be on Mercutio's trail, if at all? When would Mercutio decide he had had enough and leave? Tybalt gritted his teeth. It did not serve any purpose to ruminate like this. He laid the piece of wood on the railing, a half-horse head – the copy of a chess piece his uncle owned. He pocketed the knife and went back inside. He probably should check on Mercutio. Before doing so, he went down to the kitchen to check the water he had put on the fire earlier to boil. He had learned the hard way that boiled water was sometimes better than water from the well. He gathered some in a jar for it to cool down, and took it upstairs.

His knock at Mercutio's door only earned him a cry of “don't come in!” But he was in his house, and he would be damned if he let Mercutio order him around. He opened the door, and the sight that greeted him had him torn between laughter and anger. Mercutio was sitting on the bed, naked to the waist, wrestling with his bandages – which had been tied in a way that made it hard to remove alone. Of course, anyone would have cut it, but Tybalt had used Mercutio's impromptu nap to stow away everything sharp. To top the awkward posture, Mercutio was glaring at him – as though it would make him leave. He curbed his faint amusement, not wished for Mercutio to throw a tantrum. Instead, he walked to the small table at the foot of the bed and laid the jar on it. The water was warm still, but not scalding any longer.

“You should be resting.”

“I am resting.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow. True, Mercutio did sound like a petulant child, but there was no helping it. He _was_ a petulant child for real. “Mercutio, I hate being the one to break it to you, but when you suffered a stab wound, playing around with the bandages is not wise. Unless you want to die because of an haemorrhage. In which case I would be thankful if you could do it elsewhere.”

“You already killed me.”

“In the streets. I would be hard pressed to explain how you died a second time in my cousin's bed.” He bit the inside of his cheek – why did he have to say it like that? And of course, Mercutio noticed, if the smirk he was sporting was any indicator.

“Is this a promise, Tybalt?”

He was startled at the use of his given name. Usually, Mercutio used a nickname or his last name. It made his comment sound less like a taunt and more like an invitation of sorts. He shook himself, cursing himself. Now was not the time for his imagination to play tricks on him. He glanced back to Mercutio. The bandages were ruined, they had to be changed immediately. Avoiding looking at his guest more than necessary, Tybalt opened the curtains, letting sunlight pour in. He quickly went away to fetch the supplies, and upon coming back, he was surprised to find Mercutio sitting on a stool, and the bedspread put back on.

“You can sit on the bed.”

Mercutio shook his head. “I won't fall. And how do you expect to go round if I'm sitting on the bed? Crawl on it? I don't think so.” He sounded sober, and Tybalt realized that this was the real Mercutio he was facing. The man who was once so close to him, and not the jester he had become over time.

Tybalt shrugged, and poured some of the boiled water in a basin to clean his hands. He then proceeded to cut the bandages to remove them. Doing so, he noticed that Mercutio's skin was cold and damp – he would have to ask for any fever, just in case. At first, he tried to touch Mercutio as little as possible, but he could not be as effective that way. He simply did all he could to keep his mind on the task at hand, and not on whatever thoughts the proximity of Mercutio elicited. He carefully pulled the bandages from the wound, stopping when he felt Mercutio tense. Tybalt waited for his word to continue. He then took a clean cloth, soaked it in water, and added the alcoholic solution the doctor had prepared to remove all encrusted blood and sweat from the wound. The stitches held fast, which was a blessing. Tybalt could do stitches in a pinch, but as his left thigh would testify, it was not a nice job. The scar itself had faded after some years, but it was still there to remind Tybalt of this particular bout of stupidity.

He used salve then, to make sure it would heal better – the scar would leave a long mark on Mercutio's side, but hopefully, it would not be a mess. It did not look like it. A furtive glance at Mercutio's torso showed Tybalt two things: first, Mercutio seemed to heal very well, which was a relief; second, Tybalt himself was responsible for the majority of the scars he could see.

“Enjoying the view, are you?”

Mercutio's voice forced him back to reality, and it was then that he remembered exactly where he was, and what he was doing. He had been acting out of instinct the whole time, and had barely noticed just how close to Mercutio he was. He withdrew, kneeling on the floor, now at a safer distance. He felt his face heat up at being caught staring. Although it was not like Mercutio tended to think of shirts as garments that had to be laced all the way up in general.

“Well, I got into all this trouble to get you shirtless, I'm going to make the most of it.” Immediately, Tybalt wanted to bang his head on a stone wall. That was the stupidest thing he could have said! But the chuckle it earned him from Mercutio was still worth it – better this than endless grousing.

“Please, do. But the doctor would not be happy if you don't wrap me up.”

“Shame.” He offered Mercutio a small smile – he did not want things to be so awkward, and in a way, if was nice to banter without the aggression that usually went with it.

“I heard of doctors poisoning people, I would not want to be responsible for your untimely demise.” Mercutio had said it so casually, there was no indication of how serious he was. Though, considering that doctors knew how to heal... They probably had a few poisons close at hand too.

“Really?” Tybalt doubted Mercutio would not want him dead at all. 

“I'd rather kill you myself.”

Tybalt laughed at the face Mercutio made – doing his best to look seductive and failing because he looked like a sleep-deprived wreck.

“Alright, let's get you wrapped up, shall we?” And he did exactly that, making sure the whole thing was secure before letting go of Mercutio. He then went to his own room to fetch a new shirt – only to throw it into Mercutio's face.

He smirked at the indignant squawk that greeted the shirt. “We would not want you to catch a cold...” He waited until Mercutio got his head out of the shirt to add: “And as for killing me yourself... You better get back into shape first.” With this, he went away, silently relishing the shouts and curses from Mercutio that followed him down the stairs.


	9. Monday night

Since Tybalt had changed his bandages, Mercutio was left with a lot on his mind. Their interaction, though rare, was peaceful, and that took a few tries for him to get used to it. On top of it, he had flirted with Tybalt. Actually flirted – not taunting him. Whatever had gotten into him, he had no idea. Maybe it was in the water, or the air, because Tybalt flirted back. Mercutio had half expected to have scissors jammed in his hand at the time but no. He did not know what to think. In fact, all he could think about was how Tybalt took care of him – and how his hands had felt on his skin. Mercutio did not care remembering when was the last time he had let someone touch his bare skin. Short of doctors... It had been some time ago – and it had been Benvolio. Because Benvolio knew him well, and Mercutio trusted him. This time, he did not feel revulsion, as he expected – after all, Tybalt had tried to kill him a few times. Maybe he wanted Tybalt to be closer to him? Even if he was the one who had shunned him all these years ago. And if now was time for honesty, then it was because he was scared. Scared of what he might have been feeling. He had seen people wrecked by feelings. He had never wanted any of it, and the mere thought of anyone touching him in a sexual way had made his skin crawl at the time. He sighed. It was no good dwelling on it. Nor reflecting on Poseidon – he simply hoped they would never find him. If they did... He would have to ask Tybalt to slit his throat.

He shook himself and looked at the window. It was still dark. He had not been able to sleep the day before, and he was too tired to handle another day without sleep. So, to his sleep-deprived mind, going to see Tybalt seemed like a good idea. He padded to Tybalt's room, not bothering with a candle – he put his right hand on the wall and followed until the third door. Tybalt had showed him around when he could walk, in case anything came up. Well, this counted as anything, right? He opened the door as quietly as possible, and was thankful for the curtains to be half-open. He pondered an instant if he should call Tybalt first or not? As he was thinking, he grew dizzy – standing too long did not do him any good. He went to the side of the bed farther from Tybalt and sneaked under the covers. It was strange, but he could feel Tybalt's warmth.

“Did you seriously think you could sneak on me like that?”

Mercutio almost jumped out of his skin at the hoarse whisper. He tried to catch his breath, cursing.

“Mercutio, I should be the one cursing. What are you doing in my bed?” Tybalt had spoken softly, and it was difficult to know if he was too tired to care, or if he did not mind so much.

“I couldn't sleep. I'm always cold and...” He did not want to tell Tybalt that his thoughts were running amok in his head, even if it was the case.

He was not prepared for Tybalt to move until he was within reach, and facing him.

“You can stay. Just try to sleep, okay?” Tybalt sounded like he was drifting back to sleep.

“Tybalt?”

“Hm...?”

Mercutio leaned forward, and managed to lay a small kiss on Tybalt's cheek. “Thank you.” And with this, he turned around, curling into a ball as much as he could with pulling his stitches. Tybalt did not try to strangle him... With this thought, Mercutio drifted to sleep. 


	10. Tuesday morning

Tybalt awoke when the sun was well past the horizon, feeling somewhat constrained. He had a very strange dream – Mercutio had come to sleep in his bed because of whatever... And he kissed him on the cheek. That was weird. Tybalt blinked, and was surprised to see a mop of blond hair in front of him. Wait... He looked down to find his suspicions confirmed. Mercutio was in his bed all right. He was even using Tybalt as a pillow, his head on his chest and his arms around him. Tybalt felt his cheeks heat up – did that mean that the peck on the cheek was real too? He did not really have time to reel at the notion because Mercutio was stirring. It was actually quite funny to watch Mercutio struggling to open his eyes and squinting at him.

“What happened?”

“You slept, I think.” Tybalt did not want to make this harder for Mercutio, after all.

“You think?”

“I was sleeping too. That's what I do at night, usually. Although the part where I serve as an extra pillow to you is a novel addition.”

Mercutio groaned, and Tybalt almost felt bad for teasing him. Almost. But it did not feel as awkward as it should have. He did not exactly mind the closeness now as he did yesterday. And it helped that Mercutio was wearing a nightshirt.

Tybalt blinked. Wait a minute. He looked at his arm. Nope. No nightshirt for him. Pray that Mercutio would not notice. Even though said Mercutio had his face on his chest. He let out a defeated whine. Life hated him. It was payback for what he had done in his life. And of course, Mercutio noticed, and when he moved to sit, Tybalt became painfully aware of another problem.

“Looks like you could use some help for your morning wood, Tybalt.”

He did the most clever thing he could think of at the moment – grab his pillow and shove it in Mercutio's face. What he had not anticipated as Mercutio still having a grip on the sheets... And who was left to cover himself with the second – and last – pillow? Him, of course. Mercutio recovered too quickly and Tybalt was rather miffed that he seemed to find the situation so hilarious.

“Get out.”

“You sure you don't want-”

“Get out!” As Mercutio got off the bed, still wheezing with laughter, Tybalt kept grousing at how much he hated Mercutio, his entire life, himself, and pretty much everything. It did not help that Mercutio kept laughing long after he had passed the door. Tybalt let himself fall back on the bed, and barely missed the headboard. Maybe life did not hate him so much? The only good thing about this very embarrassing moment was that the source of his embarrassment obviously thought it better to disappear. He sighed. This was going to be a long day, he could feel it. He froze – and wailed at the poor word choice.


	11. The following Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all well and good if Mercutio and Tybalt are getting along, but it would be better with Poseidon out of the picture.

The Prince had called Benvolio to Villafranca. He finally was done with Poseidon's representative. Oh, they had done their best to placate him, telling him there was no need for war, once they learned that their threats would not be heeded. However, the Prince had some time before Benvolio arrived, so he summoned a man he trusted, called Yusuf. Yusuf was an Ottoman trader – at least that was what he said. The Prince had never questioned him, and in turn, he had kept fairly friendly ties with Constantinople. The man arrived quite fast.

“You called me, _efendim_?”

“I did, and I thank you for coming so quickly.” He pondered an instant on how he should phrase his next statement. “Yusuf, you probably remember once asking me about the island situated far on the Adriatic, near all commercial routes.”

Yusuf seemed to think about it for a moment, before he nodded. “Indeed. I remember also that you told me they were a superior force and had to be avoided, after my master expressed the wish to have the island as an outpost.”

The Prince acquiesced. “If you wish, you may inform your master that this island is in fact weaponless, but is inhabited by Italian citizens.”

“So,” Yusuf asked, “the island may be claimed by the sultan, without retaliation from the republics?”

“If the citizens present are free to go wither they so desire, or otherwise stay, yes. This island does not reside within the boundaries of our cities.”

Yusuf smiled, and he reminded the Prince of the fox from the tales. “But there are other people on this island, otherwise you would not be willing for the Ottoman army to go there.” It was a statement, and the Prince felt no inclination to deny it. He had made a point of always being truthful to men like Yusuf – men of more than one trade, and whose help was invaluable.

“Poseidon is an order based on ancient religions, and has been abducting our people with our assent for too long to count.”

“You let them take your children until now, but refuse now. I will not ask you why, _efendim_ , although it sounds unfair that we would have to deal with them ourselves.”

“Alas, I vowed not to wage war against them. There is no telling what they would do to their captives.”

In the end, Yusuf was not too hard to convince, and he agreed to bear a letter to the Sultan in the name of the Prince. He had barely left the premises that Benvolio arrived, enquiring about the Prince's command.

“I think it is time for the two exiles to be brought back, Benvolio. Poseidon will not approach Verona again. Or any other city, God willing.”

The sight of Benvolio practically leaping, and shouting for his horse, made the Prince smile. The palazzo had been painfully silent since Mercutio disappeared. He would be glad to greet him home. After some scolding as to his manner of handling things. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While at the time (I picked 16th-century, mostly) the Ottomans referred to the city as Istanbul and Constantinople rather indiscriminately, Europeans used only Constantinople. [And yes, the name of Yusuf was not picked without reason. But that's another fandom.]


	12. Wednesday

Benvolio had raced his horse to Mantua. Or he would have if he did not have any mercy for the poor animal. After an initial start that had him halfway by evening, Benvolio made a stop in a village, and let his horse rest until the next morning. When he arrived in Mantua, it took him a moment to find the place where Mercutio and Tybalt were – until an elderly man pointed him out to an isolated villa as being Paola Vespucci's. Benvolio had seen her only once, and thought he remembered something about her barely leaving Mantua after her husband died at war. Another useless war waged against Firenze. Benvolio shrugged. Now was not the time. He rode to the villa and was surprised to find Tybalt and Mercutio playing chess in the front garden. He dismounted and went to greet them. He was not prepared for Tybalt to leap on his feet and put himself between him and Mercutio. He did not look angry as much as wary. Benvolio held up his hands.

“I'm here with a message from the Prince.”

“I am condemned to death if I return?” The accusation was not lost to Benvolio, but he chose not to raise to the bait. 

“Nothing of the sort. May I?” He gestured to the stone bench facing the one on which Mercutio was sitting. At Tybalt's nod, he went to sit. He gratefully took the goblet of wine Mercutio offered him – he was quite parched. He did his best not to show his surprise at Tybalt sitting next to Mercutio, a lot closer than was usual for Mercutio himself.

“So, the Prince told me to bring the both of you back.”

“I won't.” Mercutio calmly said.

“Merc?”

“I won't come back if it means Tybalt will be executed for a felon and I be handed over to that bunch of madmen.”

Benvolio sighed. Apparently, no matter what happened, Mercutio would not lose his habit of jumping to conclusion.

“Listen to me. The Prince wants you back because, in his own words, Poseidon is gone for good. They are not in Verona, Mercutio. If you return, it's to stay.” He then turned to Tybalt. “I told the Prince what I knew, and what happened after the duel. He had not sent anyone on your trail for this very reason. So you have no reason not to come back.” He paused. “Besides, Juliet told Romeo she would never marry unless you are present, so everyone is a bit stuck.”

“I'm not sure I want to come back, then.”

And Benvolio could not believe his eyes: Tybalt was grinning. A real, proper grin. He had no idea it was even possible.

“Tybalt, that's mean. I'm sure Romeo will make a good husband. Your cousin will make sure of that.” Mercutio had his hand on Tybalt's forearm, and however small the gesture was, it spoke volumes of how close they were. Benvolio did not want to jump to conclusion as well, but he was beginning to guess that it was not just Mercutio's wound that had been healing. He smiled at the thought.

“Ben, don't smile like that, you look like you know everything!”

“Oh, but I do. Know everything.”

“Prove it!” Came Mercutio's shout.

Benvolio shrugged. “You are so gullible sometimes. So, do you agree to come back to Verona, both of you? Or do I tell the Prince I found your entwined corpses in a well or something equally tragic?”

“Nope. Though I guess I could have come back even with Poseidon in town. I don't risk anything any more.” Mercutio had said it so casually that Benvolio almost missed his meaning. However, the fact that Tybalt suddenly grew very red in the face and began cursing Mercutio was more than he needed to confirm his suspicions.

“Mercutio, there are things I would rather not hear, if that's alright.”

“But with whom can I share my joy?”

“Not with me!” And to tell Tybalt how sorry he was for Mercutio's poor education. The distraction – Mercutio's education – was a welcome change, and soon, him and Tybalt were commiserating very loudly about how Mercutio was being difficult, and yes, so very childish. Their talk was only interrupted by Mercutio's cries of 'I'm right there' and 'How can you be so mean? I hate you both!'

 


	13. One Friday night, weeks later

Mercutio was content. He did not remember when he last was so content, but it probably did not count. He stretched luxuriously, before curling up against Tybalt's side, his head on his lover's chest. Lover. The term had a very peculiar ring to it, and had someone told Mercutio a year ago that he would come to call anyone like this, he would have laughed. And probably would have felt sick at the implication. In a way, he did not regret all these years spent teasing and taunting Tybalt. And Mercutio had to admit that he had not made it easier for him when they began growing closer. All because of a stab wound. Of all the wounds, it had to be the one that could be spun into puns endlessly. Although he refrained from doing so in front of Tybalt – apparently, the knowledge that Mercutio could have died was still not sitting well with him. Mercutio had a hunch that it never would. He smiled when he felt Tybalt's hand running up and down his back, the gesture quite comforting. And a sign that he probably was thinking too much. Or too noisily.   
He raised his head to look at Tybalt, and kissed him lightly. He remembered how uncomfortable he had been at first with the intimacy, and simply showing that he cared. He was so used to keep people at a distance that he had to learn how. Although Tybalt had been, was, a very patient teacher in that regard. Which spoke volumes, since Tybalt and patient were normally not used in the same sentence. If at all.   
“You were thinking again.”  
“Someone has to do the thinking, you know.”  
Tybalt scoffed: “Obviously, the thinking doesn't need to make sense.”  
“Are you implying that I don't make sense?”  
“You are the master of innuendos, so what do you think?”  
“I think that compliments would lead you anywhere.” He grinned. Of course, he did not mind what Tybalt said. Not too much at least.   
Tybalt tightened his hold on him, so that he would rest on top. Mercutio would never say it out loud, but he liked it when Tybalt did so. He gained a very nice venture point on Tybalt's face, while resting quite comfortably on him. Even if usually, it meant that Tybalt had something to tell him. And today was no different, as he requested to be the one going to see Mercutio at Villafranca, rather than Mercutio coming here.   
“You don't want me here, that's what your saying?” He did his best to look affronted.   
Tybalt shook his head: “Actually, it's my uncle who doesn't want your footprints on the façade.”  
“But, I have to prove my love to you by coming here at the peril of my life. Climbing walls fits the description!” He pouted, hoping Tybalt would see his point.  
“Mercutio, they know. You can use the front door, like people do.”  
“Normal people are boring.”  
This made Tybalt perk up and Mercutio suddenly wondered what he said that could be used against him.   
“So, Mercutio Escalus, are you implying that, because people who use the door are normal, and thus boring, I am boring?”   
Mercutio stared at him. Was that a double entendre? “Of course not, you're not boring.” He kissed Tybalt lightly, but immediately moved away to add: “I'm just saying that I won't use the door.”  
“Then, I'll come to Villafranca.” Tybalt sighed – and froze mid-sigh. Too late.   
“That you will.” Mercutio was grinning from ear to ear, and he probably should not find this so hilarious, but Tybalt still going red in the face because of that kind of retort was one of these little things worth living for. And worth getting a whack on the head for. And probably also worth being called an idiot, but it was okay because he was Tybalt's idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is were I leave you, folks. I hope you enjoyed your read as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> My thanks to Ambrose for proofreading - and pointing out loopholes, and listening to me while I ranted. 
> 
> And a huge thank you to Sosearchingromeo for the great prompt!


End file.
